So, my friend's birthday is coming up, so I decided to write this mush of fanfictions and original stuff. I particularly liked this Jily one, so...Enjoy!
The hiding, the waiting and watching. Every step measured, every breath hushed. As if Voldemort was right outside their very door, listening to every word spoken.
It drove him insane.
Dumbledore called him a free spirit, which was true, he supposed. He'd wake up cocooned in thick sheets with an overwhelming sense of helplessness and panic; he felt trapped, cornered, vulnerable. Like a bird in a cage, just waiting for the day when it would be taken out and beheaded.
Sirius and Remus helped, of course. Their visits brought plentiful supplies of Firewhiskey and butterbeer, eggnog on Christmas. Lily disapproved, or at least pretended to. James saw the smiles that crossed her beautiful face when she thought no one was looking. Peter didn't come around often, probably still daunted by his role as Secret Keeper. Or maybe it was all those deaths.
Lily didn't understand, she was happy and pregnant and content, so he hid his feelings. But every night, after she'd gone to sleep, he'd turn on his side and look out the window up at the stars, twinkling so high up. He remembered what it had been like, on his old Silver Arrow broomstick, shooting through the sky. Back then, the stars were his home, his family. Now they seemed to weep for him, reaching out silvery tendrils to draw him back to them, back into the sky.
And then one day, he slipped. Made a mistake. It had only been for a few minutes, just a chance to wet his feet with dew and draw in a breath of fresh air. But she found out anyway.
He could still feel her trembling hands, still taste the salty rivers of tears that ran down her cheeks into his mouth. "How can we do this when we can't even trust each other?" she whispers, her face so devastatingly beautiful despite the crying.
He grips her face tightly, running his fingers again and again over her smooth cheekbones. She is so wonderful; he has hurt her, and it feels like he has stabbed himself with a basilisk fang. "We'll make it through," he murmurs hoarsely. "I promise."